


Lupus Dei

by TriffidsandCuckoos



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Angst, Gen, Gothic, World War I, set during movie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-10 22:06:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16463231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriffidsandCuckoos/pseuds/TriffidsandCuckoos
Summary: As a wolf, Graves is a monster; as a man, Graves is vulnerable.





	Lupus Dei

**Author's Note:**

> I've been going through a lot of my FB words from the last year and a half and thought this suited the Halloween season rather well. It's one of the first things I ever wrote for the fandom and while I have updated it a little, I also find it rather fascinating how my writing in general and for these characters has changed.
> 
> Title is a Penny Dreadful reference, because I do love me some overdramatic gothic aesthetic.

The sun is already setting when Graves' completes the final jump, apparating on the edge of what passes for a forest when you spend most of your waking hours in Manhattan. There's a light mist of rain falling, the same as it has been all day, where conjuring an umbrella feels ridiculous but you find yourself cold to the bone already. It feels like it's already autumn. Graves' is New York born and bred, but even he admits the end of August is a little depressing.

Rain hides scents though. Obscures tracks, when it's heavy enough. Then again, like this, it might just produce enough mud to make them clear enough to follow. He'll have to check tomorrow morning, before he leaves.

Sighing to himself, he makes his way amongst the trees, leaving a disorientation spell in his wake with the sort of practice which becomes first habitual and then mindless. It's not the sort of spell he advises his aurors to perform out on busy streets, since it lacks focus and broad swathes of befuddled no-majs can be a tall order to cover up when in pursuit of a suspect. (Not that that stops some of them.) Out here, however, there shouldn't be anyone out besides the occasional walker, lovers searching for the ideal spot for a tryst (for that alone, Graves is grateful that the summer is almost over), and of course, anybody who's somehow tracked the Director of Magical Security through what he likes to think is a bewildering pattern of apparation jumps.

Far enough in. Time to lay the trail.

He twirls his wand absent-mindedly once, twice around his fingers, then sets out on a roughly circular path, this time releasing a charm to leave a smell of fresh chicken in his wake. For any human, it would be convincing; for anything else, it’s good enough to confuse for one night. He picks up the pace as the sky begins to darken, and he feels a shiver under his skin – not something trying to get out, not yet, but definitely something waking up. There's never enough time.

Finally he reaches a point where the circle roughly joins up (with a few optimistic magical jabs in the right direction). He lifts his arm to cast a barrier, then freezes as it suddenly jerks to one side, his wand falling to the ground as his fingers contort and he lets out a cry which still sounds just this side of human.

The spasm passes, for now. Cursing long and low, he breathes in deeply and gestures the wand back into his hand, quickly summoning a decidedly shoddy shield within his circle which would no doubt make his old Charms professor faint in horror. (As if there wouldn't be ample opportunity for that soon enough.) Muttering a few more choice words, he does what he can to fix it, shore up the edges a little, before another convulsion wracks his body, this time leaving him stretched out and gasping on the forest floor.

It’s _rising_ , he knows, even with the clouds smothering what sky he can see through the branches. His eyes aren’t what matter anymore. He has other senses for knowing the world.

Fighting another spasm, gritting his teeth as the pain begins, as his bones begin to scrape and stretch, he starts to wrench at the buttons on his shirt and pants, the garments flying off and nesting in the nearest tree, already charmed to hopefully be easy to locate when the morning finally comes.

A surge of energy rips through him, contorting his limbs as he scrabbles in the earth, and this time he fights back the sound trying to tear itself free. It always feels like that's when he stops being human.

(He hasn't been human for well over a decade now.)

He flicks his wand up to join his clothes, masked and hidden from all but the most determined of searchers, and then it's all over. Then it starts.

He feels the fur start to grow; feels his jaw lengthen, the teeth sharpening; feels the animal seize him.

Finally, _finally_ , he lets himself howl at the moon.

\----

He blinks his eyes open. All he sees is brown and grey, which is at least an improvement on the taste in his mouth. The sky is still dim, clouds still not entirely gone, but there's that different quality to the light which tells you that the sun is coming, not going. Everything has that washed-out, wrongly-lit quality to it. Like it's waiting for something.

He's lying on his side in the mud, already starting to shiver as the chill seeps into his bones. He tries to move, and can't bite back the curse as a million aches and pains seize the opportunity to make themselves known. His body feels well and truly used.

Groaning quietly to himself, he somehow manoeuvres himself onto his hands and knees, and as a reward lets himself stay there for a moment, head hung low and eyes squeezed shut. It's almost too much. Then he opens his eyes and again and forces himself to his feet. Never mind that he has the rest of the day off: nobody wants to spend their time shivering and naked in the woods.

After a deep breath, he mutters the activation incantation for the finding spell through the ache in his jaw, and stumbles in the right direction. Of course he didn't stop underneath his possessions. Chance would be a fine thing.

When he finally reaches the right point, he gestures at the bundle nestled up in the tree. As usual, nothing happens. He's still not entirely sure what causes that: disorientation from the change; the residue of the beast; or simple exhaustion. All he knows is that it always takes a few hours to force his body to manage wandless magic again. Because Merlin forbid anything in his life should be easy, just for once.

He's breathing deeply, trying to convince himself that he really can climb up there and his body can manage something other than just curling up into a ball for hours and also trying to stop the shivering (it's _August_ ), when suddenly he tenses. He's not sure why, but something suddenly feels off. Something isn't right. A cracked twig, perhaps; maybe another's inhalation of breath, or something different in the scents of the wood. 

Then he hears a low voice, hissing in his ear. "Oh my dear director," it says, "if only the world could see you now."

The darkness returns.

\---

He comes to slowly, disoriented by the feeling of déjà vu. His body still aches, his head is still pounding, although at least this time he is clothed. He can barely see anything, though: his eyes adjust fast enough to the darkness (too fast, still not entirely human eyes) to know he hasn't gone blind, but the outlines of walls and door are very little help.

He tries to move, and when his arms suddenly stop, he hears a very distinctive metallic rattle. Slowly he looks up, already knowing what he'll see, but still ridiculously hoping it won't be true.

Chains.

Chains which prove extremely resistant to both physical and magical strength; which refuse to be wrenched from the wall; which sap away any attempt to charm them open, even when he resorts to screaming the words. Chains embedded in wall and floor, with just enough give for him to sit.

He's in the middle of remembering how to dislocate his thumb when his ears pick up a muffled clunk. Glancing up, he sees the door open, before he has to squint and raise his hands to block the sudden burst of light it lets through. The chains echo in his ears.

"Well now," he hears, "I see you're settling in, director."

A sickly smell winds towards him. There's nothing wrong with it precisely, except for exactly that: it's wrong. Something about it raises his hackles, as the saying goes (not as metaphorically for him as he’d like). It makes him twist his head away instinctively, before he can force it back and tell himself not to be so stupid.

When he does look, he sees a shadow approaching ringed by the light from the doorway which cuts across the floor. Graves squints at the hand held out, strangely pale. The figure kneels before him, white hair and white teeth, and Graves thinks, _oh_ , and almost immediately afterwards, _of course_. 

Graves has never seen the man in person before now, but he'd be a very poor director indeed if he couldn't recognise Gellert Grindelwald on sight.

( _Some might say_ , he can't help thinking, _only a very poor director would allow himself to be captured in the first place._ )

He's not quite sure what his expression shows, but whatever it is, it makes the face before him break into a smile with far too many teeth, glistening white.

\---

It's Graves' fault. He knows that.

You could probably blame the laws which meant he had to hide, or alternatively Picquery for deciding laws were there to be circumvented. You could blame Theseus Scamander, if you really wanted Graves to kill you. You could almost definitely blame the bastard who left the scar on Graves' shoulder, wide and shining and white - but then, whoever he was, he's dead now. No use blaming the dead.

Graves knows full well that if he ever gets out here, everyone will blame him for one reason or another.

If.

\---

_The moon cast both enough light not to require a lumos and enough light for Graves to check over his shoulder every other second. Disillusionment charms or not, No Man’s Land was not a place anybody would be advised to linger. Their footsteps sounded far too large, every displaced stone and squelch of mud echoing in their ears. The world was holding its breath. No guns, not even any voices, but the lookouts would be ready for even the smallest briefest flash of light. All in all, the circumstances couldn’t really be worse: on the hunt, you never want to feel like one of the hunted._

_"Just once," he muttered, just wanting to break the silence and hoping the muffling charms held, "can't we look into something away from the battlefields?"_

_Up ahead, Sergeant Theseus Scamander chuckled softly to himself. "You're more than welcome to head East. They're dealing with dragons out there. Lots of wide open mountains, and they don't really care what time of day they carry you off to feed you to your young."_

_"Dragons don't do that."_

_"And you're an expert?"_

_"No, but I'm fairly certain if they did, you'd have been complaining even more about your brother shipping out." He paused. "If that's possible."_

_Scamander glanced back over his shoulder, moonlight picking out an unmistakable glare. "I'm not complaining, I'm just – "_

_"Worried. I know." Graves sighed. "Pretend I didn't say anything."_

_Scamander turned back to the feeble excuse for a pathway ahead of them, letting out a quiet but no less undignified snort. "What else is new?"_

_Graves refused to rise to the bait, dropping the conversation as he scoured the trees around them. Honestly, he’d even prefer a forest, for all that the dark clumps of trees in Europe unnerved him. Endless, hungry, unsettling, but at least a part of the world with its own rules. Not this killing ground. Not stepping over broken barbed wire and broken limbs, trying not to see if there were eyes staring back at him. Not a low wind as the only sound, wailing endlessly around them. Bad enough when the fighting was on, yet somehow this felt all the more alien. The last place anyone should be._

_Nevertheless, no-majs were dying, civilians and recruits, and reports from the wizards sharing encampments indicated that whatever was killing them, it wasn't what a no-maj would call 'natural'. Fortunately, for now they seemed content to tell one another it was a wild animal; unfortunately, some magical creatures remained well-known within their society despite the wizarding community's best efforts. After the third full moon of killings, the more ‘superstitious’ no-majs were beginning to talk. Which was when someone had to intervene, and on this occasion, that 'someone' happened to be Scamander. Graves still wasn't sure whether he'd volunteered to help or whether he was just deluding himself about that._

_("I sent some pictures back to Newt," Theseus had told him, with that slightly-too-wide smile which never once succeeded in making Graves feel as if everything would be alright, "and he said that, judging by the distribution of claw marks and the depth of the teeth incisions, either we handle it now or he's perfectly willing to come out and see for himself."_

_Graves had never met Newt Scamander personally – still hasn't – but the picture he'd inevitably formed in his mind of the man from Theseus' constant worrying did not seem like anyone who should try to face a full-grown werewolf head-on.)_

_Scamander stopped abruptly, finger to his lips. “You hear that?” Graves didn’t, but he’d never known Scamander to spook so far at nothing. Seeing the flash of the moon catching his eyes as he looked back and forth, Graves realised he needed him to have heard something real._

_Impossible as it might have sounded, even to himself a mere few hours earlier, but he was starting to miss the battles. At least there, you had some idea of where the enemy might be. And there, of course, the enemy rarely tore you to pieces because you might be dinner._

__No, _he thought to himself, quite suddenly occupied by the image of a particularly bloody curse which had struck one of his men only three days ago,_ there they do it because they think it's the right thing to do. __

_There were no recorded sightings of werewolves in this area prior to March, which ruled out anyone still living in the villages. Whatever they were hunting, they were either a soldier with a secret, or a weapon with a purpose. Neither option seemed particularly appealing, and either was sufficient for two soldiers with prior auror experience to be dispatched on a night when any sensible person (Graves allowed himself a brief moment of amusement at the very idea) would want to stay very far away from here. Not apparate between two lines of guns held by very nervous young men (one the ‘enemy, although truthfully he wasn't very sure anymore whose 'enemy' they were fighting, only that he very well couldn't leave this mad English auror to face them alone) and walk straight into the belly of the beast, so to speak._

_Later on, he might blame the flashback – the smell of smoke and charred flesh, the feeling of the blood spattered against his face – for missing whatever small signs gave it away. Something like that couldn't just appear from nowhere, he would tell himself. It was still flesh and bone; still animal, even if it wasn't human. He must have missed something._

_(_ It's all your fault. _)_

_A low growl rumbled through the air. The two of them spun around, instantly back to back, wands raised. Then, nothing. Just the sound of their own shared heavy breathing._

_"Close by," Scamander commented at last._

_Graves nodded. Forced himself to say, "Yes," in the steadiest voice he could manage._

_"I suppose that's a good thing."_

_"Some might see it that way."_

_Scamander gasped out a laugh, both of them flinching as it echoed around them. When it finally faded from their ears, nothing else reached them. You wouldn’t even know that not so far away in both directions, hundreds of men were surviving another night, with no idea just how close they were to a rather different death._

_"We should probably move ahead," Scamander said, not moving._

_"It doesn't seem to be coming to us," Graves agreed, also not moving._

_This time when Scamander laughed, it was much more contained. From someone else, it might even have been called a giggle. Graves made a note to tell him as much at a later point, when they both made it out of this alive, as he felt the man at his back move away, striding out once more._

_Graves hesitated for a second, convinced he'd seen something move in the shadows. Still wary of any lumos, not matter how faint, he squinting into the greyness under the moon. Something moved – no, fluttered. Cloth, it seemed, on barbed wire. Just a ghost._

_Shaking his head slightly at himself, he turned to follow Scamander, who was much further forward than expected and currently squatted down, peering at something on the ground, his coat fanned out around him. "Found something?" Graves hissed, while cursing at himself for letting the man get that far ahead._

_Theseus shook his head, rising up and automatically brushing down his pants. He turned to say something to Graves, and that was the moment that the werewolf pounced._

\---

Graves hisses as Grindelwald grips him by the jaw, forces him to meet his eyes. Some wizards are already saying that they’re different colours because they sees different things. Certainly both seem fixed on Graves right now. "It's a very simple choice, Director," Grindelwald informs him, looking disappointed that he has to explain. "Either you can drink your fill of veritaserum and we have a nice pleasant chat about the world and, oh, every little detail of MACUSA and all of your acquaintances there, _or_ I can imperius you and have this all over much faster."

"Go to Hell," Graves spits at him. The fingers tighten, nails digging into his cheeks.

"We both know you don't believe in that superstitious rubbish, so don't demean yourself by parroting their filth." Grindelwald's face twists with disgust. "Now, serum or imperius? We don't have an awful lot of time before you're expected back from yet another mysterious absence, so if you don't choose, I'm afraid I will have to choose for you."

"You could always try to torture it out of me."

Grindelwald lets go of him then, in favour of throwing up his hands in the air. "We both know there isn't time for that," he scoffs, "twenty-four hours is barely enough time to break any auror, let alone you. Although I'm flattered, naturally." He pauses. "Of course, I could definitely do it. But not if I want that mind of yours," and his hands are back, seizing Graves' face as he tilts his head and stares at him, "still capable of answering any further questions tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day, and the day after that.

"So," he growls, "one last time: serum. Or spell."

Confessions under imperius were deemed inadmissible because of the potentially leading questions and will of the questioner. Not that they didn't happen, of course, at least before Graves got his hands on the department. Unforgivable and, more importantly, illegal as the spell was, proving its usage could often be nigh impossible, not to mention potentially opening up every single case handled to pointless and time-wasting paranoia or opportunism. That said, obviously Grindelwald didn't care about such matters, and if he was truly threatening it, then he evidently believed himself capable of executing it to acquire reliable results.

Veritaserum, on the other hand, was considered by many civilians to be the gold standard for truth-telling, and by an increasing number of aurors to be far more unreliable than anybody realised. The truth, after all, was generally a matter of circumstance. Easier to hide in plain sight. Lesser of two evils.

"Serum."

Grindelwald's face split into that awful smile, finally releasing him and rising to his feet. "I knew you'd choose one, Director."

( _It's all your fault._ )

"It'll hardly do you much good," Graves points out. "They're not going to let you walk in the front door."

Grindelwald nods slowly, conceding the point far too easily. The feeling of unease which had slowly been sidling its way into Graves' mind – more than just the post-change paranoia or the simple fact of being chained up Morgana-knew-where by a wanted maniac – begins to grow into a steadily rising fear. There's something he's missing here. Something obvious.

"Then it's a good thing it won't be me, isn't it? _Director_?" 

Graves is used to dreading the full moon, counting the days until his bones break again. He’s used to hiding, calling himself a monster for lack of anyone else to do it. He longs for the changes to grow shorter, if they can’t stop altogether; less and less time as a devouring animal.

For the first time, he wishes he’d never changed back into a human at all.


End file.
